Speechless
by merrygould
Summary: He always said something could be done, but as he held the dying body of his only son, he realized this was an event in time he could not fix. -two-shot; character death-
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- Speechless -

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><p>Stoick the Vast was a man of many words. Ever since he was young, his talent shone brighter than any other boy his age. Outsiders who knew his name tried their best not to tremble in fear when he was near, while others who knew him well had seen his warm, caring side; one that cradles the weight of his village on his shoulders, while holding the only living memory left by his wife in his arms. His only son.<p>

He had never failed to give an inspiring speech. Everyone in Berk looked up to him, his courage, his bravery, his will and strength. He would always have a few words up his sleeve, ready to jump out of his mouth in a flurry of whispers and shouts that left the village in wonder.

Never had he been speechless. And yet, as he looked down at the black, breathing beast in front of him, he could not help the fact that his hands trembled as he held his recently deemed pride and joy.

Stoick's eyes, two sickly ghosts of the lively orbs they once were, settled on the only living memory Hiccup had left for him.

_Just like his mother…_

To think, his own boy would be in contact with a dragon, let alone one of the most deadly. It was so absurd; Stoick almost believed it was all a horrible nightmare. He knew better, however, as his grey-green eyes bore into the tired, weakened ones of the Night Fury his son had been so desperate to save. He looked over the image of this very dragon, clutching the remains of the boy in his legs and wings, as if to shield him from the flames. That was indeed a shock for Stoick.

This dragon…a _dragon…_tried to save _his son._

Stoick felt tears slip down his face, dripping into the unkept, fiery red beard he had given up grooming so long ago. He clutched his son's beaten frame with both hands protectively, his gaze still fixed on the Fury.

Surprisingly, the dragon wasn't looking at him anymore. Instead, his pupils were solely fixed on Hiccup. Stoick heard faint crooning sounds emanating from the Fury's throat as it used a claw to pull itself closer to him. Stoick, however shocked by this act, did not move, his small eyes narrowing as he studied the dragon. Its nose lightly prodded Hiccup's side, eyes widening. It slowly backed away, struggling to get to its unsteady feet as it, this time, uttered a horrified rumble. Stoick lowered his gaze and fixed it on the leather straps tied snuggly around his son's chest. He flinched when he heard a sharp, pained draconic wail cut through his cluttered thoughts.

Stoick wished to comfort the dragon, but he did not know how. He instead listened to the dragon let out roars and growls filled with sadness and disbelief he had never heard come from a dragon before.

Only after a few moments did Stoick realize the Fury was lamenting Hiccup's death. Now, reduced to a whimpering pile of scales, the dragon sat in front of Stoick and Hiccup, eyes as pale as the red-headed Chief's. Stoick could not bear to look at his deceased son any longer, nor the face of the dragon he had befriended, so he allowed the frail body to drop slightly as he released a gentle, shaky sob.

Stoick was indeed a man of many words.

But today, he had none.

...

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> _First of all, I'd like you to forgive me for this. It was supposed to be something different, but came out something else. The vocabulary isn't superb here either. I might edit it sometime later. –shrugs- _

_I know I promised something cheery, but this was nagging me for a while. I'm pretty sure somebody's already wrote something like this (it's a pretty easy-to-think-up idea) but I did it anyway. __Another 'what if Hiccup died' fic. Yeppers._

_Tell me what you thought of it! :D_


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**a/n: **_Thank you, to all of you, who reviewed and favourited Speechless. I thought I'd write a follow-up, even though the story really didn't need one. It doesn't follow anything but my train of thought, nor does it follow any plot (other than the one I loosely constructed in the first part). This is not crucial to anything, so you can choose to skip it if you'd prefer._

_Warning: Unbeta'd  
><em>

_If you are going to continue, enjoy!_

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><p>His heart felt as though it had been wrenched from his chest, weakly beating and battered to the extent that even he, Stoick the Vast, had to hide behind a mask of empty happiness. He had never felt this way. Not in his long, plentiful life, had he ever felt so <em>worthless.<em>

What had he gained from this little escapade? Nothing. Nothing but the unmoving, cold body of his only son. What had he achieved? _Nothing._ Nothing but the urge to rip his own hair out of his scalp, and lock himself in his house and cry where no one could see him. His mind was stuck in a cold, unforgiving mantra of _'I deserve this, I deserve this, I deserve this.' _He believed it, and his mind continued to recite it, and he continued to believe it some more. There was nothing he could do to fix his mistakes. The gods had already punished him for the sin he didn't know he had committed.

His son had practically died by his own hand.

And then, as if his broken and tired frame was struck by lightning, he started. He had practically killed his son. It wasn't the smoke, it wasn't the fire, it wasn't even the dragon. It was the feeling of unfulfilled duty- his son had wanted to fix this mess, to prove himself, and so he had attempted to. And Stoick had let him. Let him fall to his own death.

As far-fetched as his accusation was, even to him, he began to believe that, too. _He killed his own son._

It could quite possibly have been a murder.

His fragile heart agreed. He hated himself, all of a sudden, and a small part of him said _'this is not the truth. You don't deserve this,' _but he didn't feel like listening.

The voice of self-loathing was so much sweeter. So much more convincing.

Stoick eyed a sketchbook settled on the table, fallen pages strewn over the wooden surface. Drawings littered the parchment: odd contraptions, meticulously drawn scenery, _dragons. _So many beautifully detailed dragons. Stoick felt his aching chest swell with pride, before deflating once again.

He did not have anyone he could say he was proud of. Not anymore.

Should that stop him?

Stoick blinked, his gaze ripped from the drawings to look straight ahead of him. True, _should _that stop him?

Then guilt settled in. How could he dismiss the memory of his son so easily?

Then came a strange feeling of frustration. _Why was he acting so weak? _

Stoick hadn't noticed when he'd clenched his fists over the wooden table, or when he'd stood up. The _thump _of his chair hitting the ground yanked him back to his senses, and his fists immediately relaxed.

He didn't know. He really, truly, honestly didn't know. But he wanted to fix it. In any way, he wanted to get rid of all of these irksome feelings plaguing his mind.

So he looked at the sketchbook, resting so peacefully on the table, having been thrown haphazardly in the middle of the splintered slab of wood. He collected all of the stray pages, and delicately placed them inside the book, his expression solemn and a tad bit confused.

There was a feeling, something bordering the line of instinct, that told him Hiccup would want him to move on. Move away. Continue to lead the village in a new light.

As a Viking, he was taught to always follow his instincts.

Stoick didn't know where this thought had come from. He stood there for a while, the leather-bound book in his hands, and his eyes unfocused.

His village needed him. He couldn't possibly be of any good to them if he sat in his house all day.

But his son…

_What about his son?_

He **died.**

The truth has a way of showing up at the most brutal of times, but whatever happens, it happens for a _reason._

That did not mean he should completely forget about him. Does it?

…No. No, it doesn't. Not in the slightest… But if he didn't want to forget, how would he be able to _move on?_

The encouraging words of his people rang in his ears, and he finally tried to pay heed to what they'd been trying to say. A familiar word was on the tip of his tongue, and Stoick inwardly winced. His head had begun throbbing wildly, as he hadn't thought so hard in nearly a month.

A month…since that incident.

_An incident he should accept._

And then the word hit him, like a boulder, and he realized what his experiences, the old teachings, the legends of death and rebirth told him- to honour. To honour his memory, and to allow himself to forgive his actions.

There it was again, _his actions._

He had…forgiven Hiccup, hadn't he? He had forgiven him. He had finally said he was _proud _of him. He'd meant every word.

That was it, then.

Stoick released a sigh he hadn't known he'd been holding, and set the book in his hands back down. Hiccup wouldn't have wanted him to be upset. His son had never been very close to him, but Stoick knew this much.

He peered across the room, to a window that had been left open, and watched the sun peek over the horizon.

Maybe…it was time to start again.


End file.
